Instruments On Parade
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: I leaned forward infinitesimally, eyes wide and ears alert, waiting. There! The first steady taps, the flutter of a banner, the up and down motion of white feathers. They were coming. My breath caught in my chest. This was it.


**Disclaimer: If you recognize any references, I don't own them.**

This is really just a way for me to express my love for holiday parades =D The story itself isn't necessarily true, but it draws on a lot of realistic thoughts and elements from my childhood. Anyway, read, enjoy, and please review!

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The noise was unbelievable, the excited roar of the crowd drowning out all other sounds; a dull roar in the background was the only indication that there _were_ other sounds. The people spread across the street appeared more textile than human, cocooned in massive coats and hats and sweaters. What little skin did show was bright pink and bitten by the frigid temperatures. Their exhalations formed large clouds in the air before them as they chattered excitedly, dancing about from foot to foot. I don't think there was a person there who wasn't excited.

Mentally berating myself for missing the very beginning—there are some things, such as watching a crisp, hot pie come out of the oven, which just can't be ignored—I turned my attention to the street. Over the thrum of voices, I could just barely detect the slightest melody—the first hint of an oncoming attraction. My body tensed with excitement, and I turned my head in anticipation of the impending arrival.

The crowd, sensing a change, fell silent. The light tinkle of music floated through the air and my hopes simultaneously rose and fell as I heard and in the same instant identified it; it was merely the theme song from some kiddie show I had outgrown at least two years ago. I sighed. Just a float or balloon, then.

As it rounded the corner, I could see it was definitely a balloon, and a massive one at that. Its attendants struggled to rein it in as the blustery weather threatened to tear it from their grasps. Massive and yellow, it towered over the street, its lightning bolt tail whipping back and forth in the wind.

I smiled despite myself; perhaps I hadn't _quite_ outgrown that show after all… What is nostalgia from a child, after all? I sang along under my breath, memories of Saturday mornings spent sprawled out before the television flashing to the forefront of my mind. The float drifted past, continuing along the parade route and disappearing down the street.

An excited murmur began down the block, travelling along the crowd until everyone's attention shifted to the next group that was approaching. I began to grin, certain that all of the hype meant that this next group would be what I had been waiting for, but it was not to be; this time, it was a float.

My breath left me in a disappointed whoosh.

To be fair, though, it was an awesome float—colorful (predominately green), loud, and musical. The float paused in the middle of the street, music blaring from concealed speakers, and a singer took center stage, singing some famous Broadway song or another.

I listened with half an ear, peering as far down the street as I could. There was a shine, a gleam of sorts, the sun glinting off of something down beyond the float, and I straightened, straining my eyes. Was it…? _Yes_.

The singer held out her final fermata, voice unwavering in the brisk air, and then the float jerked, beginning its trek to the next stopping point. I leaned forward infinitesimally, eyes wide and ears alert, waiting.

There! The first steady taps, the flutter of a banner, the up and down motion of white feathers. They were coming.

My breath caught in my chest. This was it.

The marching band rounded the corner and the street exploded into sound. I grinned widely, watching the band smartly approach. Every member marched with precision and poise, the deep blue and pure white of their uniforms glinting in the bright sunshine. The white of their plumes and shoes shifted with each step, and their red-edged silver sashes shone bright enough to blind even the most vision-impaired audience member.

Oh, and their _sound_. I sighed wistfully, lost in their rich tone and beautiful melodies. They were a massive band, spread out impressively along the street. Their front two rows were entirely trombones, the rest of the brass falling in behind for the next nine or ten. Drums in the back, pounding out a loud rhythm, woodwinds in the middle, and guard dispersed throughout. They were playing a simple Christmas selection, one that I hear on the radio every year, but to me it was the most beautiful sound that I had ever heard.

I had always known it, but this cemented it for me: I had to do that. I had to play in the marching band, play one of those amazing, loud instruments, march proudly in a parade before an audience of millions. I leaned closer to the impressive sight, wishing I could be one of the numbers, have a position in the endless ranks of band members. At the moment, I wanted that more than anything else in the world.

My nose brushed the glass of the television as I leaned forward even further, reminding me once more that I was not even there to experience this phenomenon live.

I was not standing at attention, horn to my lips, reveling in the sound I produced and the eyes of the crowd, the attention of every many man, woman, and child. I was not wearing four layers of clothing beneath my uniform, carefully concealing tights, thermal apparel, sweat pants, and three long-sleeved shirts beneath my jacket and pants.

I was not even in the stands.

I was at home, sprawled out on the rug before the television. I was drowning out the dull murmur of conversation from the relatives on the couch, my stomach listening to the sounds of cooking in the next room and the savory scent of turkey, baking pies, and potatoes attracting the attention of my nose.

I was not standing in the city, playing my heart out before an audience of millions. Their cheers meant nothing to me, were nothing if they weren't directed at me, at _my_ band.

At that moment, I made a solemn promise to myself: I was not marching in that parade, was not even part of a band, but one day—_one day—_I would be.

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As I said, just written in fun. Hopefully you enjoyed it, though!

And now, you may review. Go on. You know you want to.


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